


Mother's Day

by eloquated



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Family Feels, Gen, Just some Mother's Day feels!, Mycroft is a good dad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 15:26:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18803089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eloquated/pseuds/eloquated
Summary: Before his daughter was born, Mycroft never thought about what made a mother.(Sequel toGeorgiana)





	Mother's Day

**Author's Note:**

> I woke up this morning with a hankering for some Dad!Myc, and little Georgiana! If you haven't read her story ([Georgiana](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17002104/chapters/39969315#workskin)) I recommend you check that out first, otherwise this may not make as much sense!

**grandma.**

It was one of their good- better-- _best_ \-- ideas.  Even though it had meant waking in the hazy predawn, when the light was only just beginning to inch up over the horizon.  It was as quiet as London ever was, and Georgiana giggled sleepily from her father’s shoulder as he carried her down to the car.

She was asleep before the end of the street, head pillowed against high, raised sides of her car seat.  Which was entirely for the best, because they had a long drive still ahead of them.

Three years was long enough for Mycroft to be used to his early mornings, late nights, and the patter of tiny little girl feet padding up to the side of his bed.

He wasn’t the father his father had been.

Kate wasn’t the mother hers had been.  

And Mycroft still wasn’t entirely certain what that meant.  Or if it meant anything at all.

“You look broody, brother.”  Sherlock yawned hugely when they arrived outside his Cambridge dormitory a little over an hour later, showing off the pink expanse of his throat, “It’s too early for brooding.  Is that coffee?”

“It is.”

“Brilliant.”

Neither of them knew _this_ had become _them_.  When their bickering had transmuted itself from adolescent one-upmanship, and turned once more to the laughing arguments of their childhood.  Of teasingly thrown plush toys-- though now, they were Georgiana’s, and not Sherlock’s, and their antics made the little girl hysteric with giggles.

Or when Mycroft had become so used to Sherlock commandeering his coffee in the morning, that he’d begun to get two, because it was easier that way.

Hartfield in the morning was beautiful, and the green lawns around their parent's house were bright against the blue of the sky.

Ana’s tiny mary janes clipped on the walkway, and she stopped to tap her toes on the old stones, delighting in the sound.  

It wasn’t how Mycroft, or Sherlock had expected to spend their Sunday.  But from the doorway they watched Ana-- beaming, and proud of her sneaking deception-- bolt across the kitchen with her lopsided pigtails streaming behind her.

“Grandma!”  

And Violet hadn’t known what to say, when she scooped her granddaughter up into her arms, and squeezed her dear warmth to her chest in surprise.  

“Happy Mother’s Day.”  Mycroft prompted, his fingers flicking a quick reminder against his brother’s side.  

Sherlock even hugged her back, when she pulled him down to kiss his cheek.

“Oh you boys… I never expected any of this!  But it is good to see you!”

“It wasn’t our idea, Mummy.”

“Was mine!”  Ana chirped and swung her bright little shoes against her grandmother’s side; merry and proud, with a million megawatt smile that always reminded Mycroft of his little brother.  

An imp.  Their little imp.  With her picture for her grandmother clutched in her warm, soft hand, until the edges of the page creased; and Violet would hang it on her fridge with pride of place.  Just as she had done with Sherlock’s, and with Mycroft’s before his.

It was the strangest start to a very good day.

  


**mother**.

“How is she?”

Kate’s image on the screen flickered for an instant, and Mycroft instinctively tapped the side of the tablet.  As if it would do anything! “Sleeping, now. We were going to call you when she woke up.”

The living room looked like a small tornado had whirled through it, displacing toys and books, and leaving a general wave of mayhem behind.  But Mycroft turned the tablet to frame himself, and the wall-- it wasn’t ideal.

But he had been given two options; clean, or catch up on the forever demanding, growing pile of paperwork that was accumulating in his briefcase.  

Peppa Pig would simply have to wait a little longer at the foot of the couch.

“I wanted to be there, Myc.  I did. But there’s been this incredible breakthrough, and it’s the chance of a lifetime too--”

“I know.  How is Korea?”

“It’s brilliant, and the work…  You know I miss you both?”

Beneath the table, Mycroft wanted to curl his hands into fists.  He knew. He’d always known, and Kate had never made a secret of how much she loved their daughter.

But in the privacy of his own mind, Mycroft resented knowing that he would be the one to break the news to Ana.  One more broken promise from the mother that hadn’t seen her in over a year.

From the mother who was more of a curiousity on the other side of the screen, than a flesh and blood figure in their Ana’s life.  

“We miss you, too.  I have her enrolled in preschool for next year, and we’ve been working on her reading and mathematics in the evening.  She’s exceptional, Kate. You should be proud of her.”

On the other end of the line, Kate bit her lower lip and shifted in her seat.  “I am.” She promised, and even the faint crackle of static on the line couldn’t entirely hide the way her voice cracked.  

For a moment, as always, she wondered if she could go home.  Could leave her work, and be the mother Ana deserved. The sort of mother she had wanted to be, in those first few weeks.  The sort that cooked, and cleaned, and was there to read her bedtime stories.

Then her gaze caught on the night sky beyond her window, and the scattered pages on the table beneath.  

She wasn’t that sort of mother, and the urge to return home faded as quickly as it always did.

“Tell her I love her, so very much.”

And by the time Georgiana had woken from her nap, her tatty old blanket gripped in one hand and trailing behind her, the call had ended.  

She asked for juice, in the _proper purple cup_ , and curled into the familiar warmth of her father’s lap, while he tried to finish the work he’d brought home with him.  She asked for cookies, and was mollified with a banana.

She played a game in the living room with a wide collection of stuffed animals, and rules that Mycroft couldn’t begin to comprehend; her voice pitched low to her audience, like she was passing on state secrets to her teddies.

Georgiana didn’t ask for Kate.  And Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to feel superior about that.

And if he hugged Ana just a little tighter, or read her one extra story before bed?  Well… Nobody else needed to know.

  


**daddy.**

“Shh!  Uncle, too loud!  Daddy _sleepin’_!”  From the side of the door, peeking into the kitchen, Georgiana planted one pudgy finger against her comically pursed mouth.  It was impossible to look entirely fierce when you were wearing a Paddington Bear nightie, but Sherlock took mercy on his niece, and let her pull her stool close to the counter.

“What are we making?”  He prompted, and Ana grinned up at him, already reaching for the bag of bread on the counter.

“Toasts.  An…” She paused, one hand gripping the bread, and the other latched onto the loose fabric of her uncle’s t shirt for balance.  Her curls stuck out in the same mad way his did, and the early morning light would have made her round, upturned face cherubic, if not for the pinched expression of consideration fixed on her mouth.

“Coffee?”  Sherlock suggested, and watched with no small amount of sentiment as her smile returned as quickly as it had vanished, “You don’t want your daddy to be a growly bear, do you?”

“Bear!  Daddy bear, an’ eat you all up!  Grr!”

Mycroft had been up late; even later than Sherlock, who had been sleeping on his couch, and fallen asleep halfway through a classic horror film double feature.  Sherlock wasn’t certain he would even function without a cup, or five, and added a little extra for himself.

Somehow, that had become their normal, too.  Sherlock would take the train up from Cambridge at least once a month, often more.  And he’d sleep on Mycroft’s couch, and delight in the way Ana would shriek her excitement to see him in the morning.

“Shouldn’t you be doing this for Father’s Day, Ana?”  He asked a moment later, after feigning terror at her bear impression.

She paused beside the fridge and looked up at her uncle like he had just suggested she take a (hateful, horrible) nap.  “Daddy _is_ father.  And mummy.  Both.”

And it was sentiment that squeezed Sherlock’s chest when he thought about it, and when his precocious niece held up the jar of sticky marmalade, and demanded he open it, the thought lingered in the back of his mind.  He had never given it much thought before; even when Mycroft was exhausted and burning the candle at both ends, because there were simply not enough hours in the day.

Ana had a mother. _Knew_ her mother, after a fashion.  There was a picture of Kate on the wall, so she wouldn’t forget her face.

And yet?

It was Mycroft who had changed the nappies, and did the laundry.  Who made sure Ana was fed and washed, and happy. He was the parent who took time away from work when she needed him.  

And Sherlock was simply certain that even he knew more about Ana’s life than Kate did.  He knew which cup she preferred, and found himself humming the themes from children’s tv shows when he was in the lab.  He knew she loved satsumas with all a toddler’s demanding enthusiasm, but hated proper sized oranges.

“You’re right.”  He said slowly, and finished setting the breakfast tray-- letting Ana help scoop coffee, or smear on jam was one thing, but letting her carry the tray?  Well, Sherlock knew better than that! “Is he a good Mummy?”

“Uh huh!”  And Ana giggled to herself, as she pulled Sherlock down the short hall to Mycroft’s room.  

Sherlock could see how tired his big brother still was when Ana woke him.  But he smiled, and praised her efforts all the same. Just as their mother had done when he and Mycroft were small, and it was his brother who was opening the stuck jars and carrying the trays.

“Happy Mother’s Day, Mycie.”

Mycroft looked confused, but he moved his legs to make space on the end of the bed for his brother, since Ana had claimed his other side, and was resting her head on Mycroft’s chest.

“Mother’s Day, brother mine?”

“For _best_ Mummy!”  Ana trilled beside him, and picked bits from the edge of his plate with one sticky finger.  

It was unconventional, but Mycroft was still smiling when he offered a piece of toast to his brother, and to Ana, and chose to deal with the crumbs later.  

He didn’t know if he was a good parent-- but he was trying.  

And maybe, for all his doubts, he wasn’t doing such a bad job.

**Author's Note:**

> Come swing into the comments and chat about all the family feels with me! Dad!Myc is just one of my favourite things!


End file.
